I know, because I'm grieving.
I ignored it for years, masked it with rage, but nothing I did made it go away. The moment I stopped and opened myself up again, dropping my guard to let myself feel, the grief seized hold.
The grass is an unnatural vibrant green that seems to glow brighter under the dismal gray sky. Water glistens from the ground, the wetness seeping through my shoes as I stand in it. I've been here for twenty minutes, I think. Twenty hours. Twenty days. Does it even fucking matter?
It's the first time I've come here in twenty years.
I know that for a fact.
The marble in front of me still looks brand new, the name etched on it bold. Maria Angelo Vitale. Fresh flowers lay on top of it. A few long stemmed pink roses. They were her favorite, I think. I'm not sure anymore. My memory's failing me. Today, it's her favorite flowers. Tomorrow, it's her face. I've already lost the sound of her voice. I've lost so much. Why couldn't I keep that?
The rage took it, I think. It got misplaced in my pursuit of revenge.
It didn't do her memory justice, like Ray said.
It did us all an injustice, but especially me.
It stole the only bits and pieces of her that I could keep.
I take a few steps closer, pausing right where I stood the day she was lowered into the ground. I'm wearing the same suit again.
I might burn it after this.
"Been a long time," I say. "A long, long time."
My voice is low but it seems to carry with the breeze. There's no one else here this morning, no one in this old cemetery, but it seems wrong, like the wind is stealing the words only meant for her. It pisses me off. Irrational, maybe, but since when am I rational?
I wanted to kill an innocent young woman simply for being born.
"I don't know why I'm here," I admit. "I don't know if you'd want to see me, or what you'd think of me if you were still here. I don't know, Maria… but I know I miss you. I've spent twenty goddamn years missing you, angry that you never had a chance… I've been so fucking angry that I forgot how to live. I'm trying to remember, but it's harder than I thought. I feel guilty. Guilty, because I let myself be happy again. It wasn't for long, but I felt it. It's easy to forget the grief, you know, when you ignore its existence. But it came back, and now I'm fucking grieving."
Pulling the diamond ring from my pocket, I stare at it under the dull sky before stepping forward, setting it on the headstone beside the flowers. I wonder who left them. Her mother? Her father? A friend who actually remembered things about her?
"You should keep the ring," I say. "You should've been buried with it. I wasn't thinking back then… they took it off of you, and you were already in the ground when I remembered it. Someone will probably come along and steal it before the day is out, but that's nothing new. They steal everything. It's yours, though, not mine, so I'm giving it back to you, but this time with no vows."
I take a step back, once again eyeing the flowers. They feel wrong somehow. Maybe it's because they're pink.
Peach flowers were her favorite, I think.
"Goodbye, Maria," I say. "Part of me will always love you, but it's time for me to go now and finally try to deal with this grief."
I give the gravesite one more look before walking away. I trudge through the damp grass to where my car is parked along the curb and start the drive home.
It's been one week.
One week since Karissa left.
In seven days, she could be anywhere, deep in the south or way out west, somewhere that's not here.
Somewhere far away.
It's been a long week.
I can't sleep.
I'm numb physically, emotionally spent. I have nothing left to give. Paranoia consumes me. Every gust of wind is a warning; every rustling leaf is a threat. I'm tired, so tired. I just want it to end.
I park in the driveway when I make it home, climbing out and closing the door. I slowly make my way to the house, pulling out my house keys and unlocking the front door. Carefully, I push it open, freezing with my hand on the knob when I hear a noise in the distance, animated voices coming from the den.
The television.
It's on.
I haven't turned it on all week.
I don't watch it.
It doesn't interest me.
Nothing here interests me.
My skin crawls, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach as I let go of the doorknob. Slowly, I take a step back. I'm so fixated on the goddamn television that I hardly hear the rustling behind me, the faint sound of someone shuffling through the grass.
It's close when I hear it, too close.
Too fucking close.
I'm unarmed.
I'm too late.
Turning around, the first thing I see is the muzzle of a gun, pointed right at my face from just a few feet away. Ray holds it, gripping tightly to the weapon, his finger on the trigger.
I stare him in the eyes.
He looks unfazed.